


The Customer is Always Shit

by mintboy (orphan_account)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Fluff, Humanstuck, IKEA, M/M, One Shot, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-06-22 14:24:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15583872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/mintboy
Summary: Karkat works customer service at IKEA, and some asshole has been sleeping in the display beds all week. Shit ensues, as always.For my boyfriend.





	The Customer is Always Shit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KittyMotor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittyMotor/gifts).



It had been a busy week so far – busier than usual, and Karkat was beyond exhausted.

Practically every moment was just another rush through the maze of a store to bring someone to some shitty clock or cabinet they wanted to scribble into their little notepad, which would ultimately send some other poor bastard in the warehouse looking for whatever it was the customers were searching so desperately for. It wasn’t helping that people were calling out left and right all week, since it was edging closer and closer to Christmas, either.

It felt like their staff was cut in half, and working every day of the week wasn’t exactly something anyone would be too keen on doing – especially if it wasn’t originally on their schedule.

But, people had to get their grubby little hands all over some Swedish furniture for their grand-niece’s dormitory next fall, because for some reason it’s charming to have to build all your own furniture after buying it.

That, however, wasn’t the present issue. It was the asshole that Karkat had consistently kicked out of the store every day for the past four days … and, apparently, would have to kick out today, as well. God knows why, but the guy had been sleeping in the display beds every fucking day, and during the middle of the day, too – Karkat had been finding him at around two in the afternoon every day, just snoozing in the bedroom section. A different bed every time. It was annoying, to say the least. No – infuriating, actually.

Karkat walked over to the bed, pushing the guy’s shoulder with his palm.

“Rise and shine,” he ordered, not really willing to play nice this time. It wasn’t really one of those ‘the customer is always right’ moments; it was borderline breaking the law at this point.

The man groaned, curling up. He was far too tall for the bed; this time it was one of those little racecar beds for kids, and the man’s feet had been dangling over the side. Now, his dirty red converse were starting to leave brown marks all over the comforter.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Karkat muttered. He shoved the guy again, harder than the last time – a little harder than he intended, actually. The man flailed, ultimately tumbling off the side of the bed.

“What the fuck, man,” the guy stood up. His hair was a mess, sticking up at odd angles.

“I could ask you the same question,” crossing his arms over his annoyingly bright yellow IKEA shirt, Karkat glared at the guy, who turned to check himself in the tiny mirror next to the bed.

“… Are you done yet?” he asked, exasperated, and the man turned around, running a hand through his hair. God, he just _looked_ annoying too. He was wearing acid wash skinny jeans with a WHAM! t-shirt tucked in at the front, and for some god-awful reason, sunglasses. Inside.

“That’s no way to treat a customer, mister…” the man trailed off, dipping his head down to read Karkat’s name tag, since – to reiterate – he was wearing sunglasses. Inside, “… Vantas.”

Karkat scoffed.

“You’re hardly a customer.”

The man reached into his pocket, the motion a bit wider and more dramatic than it needed to be. He pulled out a crumpled pad of paper and a tiny pencil; the ones the store gives you when you walk inside, to write down your items on.

“I could be interested in this bed, dude,” the asshole shoved his hands – and the notepad, back into his pockets.

“Really?” Karkat deadpanned, “I couldn’t tell. It’s not like you’ve been sleeping in it every goddamn day for the past week.”

“Woah, man, watch your mouth,” the man smirked, raising one eyebrow just above his shades, “you usually speak to your customers like that?”

Karkat took a deep breath, trying not to curse him out. This guy might not be welcome in the store, but that didn’t mean that he could just insult him when a manager might be around the corner – customer service was customer service.

“… I have to ask you to leave.”

The customer put a hand to his chest and dropped his jaw, feigning hurt feelings. Karkat couldn’t help but roll his eyes, glancing up at the guy as he took a step closer.

“Can I just ask a favor?” he asked.

“And what do I owe you?” Karkat immediately replied, scoffing.

The man took another step forward, leaning down and raising his eyebrows. Karkat made a face; was he really convinced he’d be able to _kiss_ him?

But, the guy just laughed, reaching up and flicking Karkat’s nose. His nails were painted red; messily, like he’d been chipping it off. His other hand reached up into the breast pocket of that annoying yellow IKEA shirt, but just for a moment.

“Just look at that later, huh?”

God, Karkat could feel the wink from behind his shades. Insufferable.

“I’m Dave, by the way,” the asshat – Dave – mentioned as he began to walk away backwards. He turned on his heel, heading towards the escalator.

“Hey, taint-chafing douchebag,” Karkat called after him, tempted to mention his shitty taste in music, as well, “why do you keep coming back here?”

Dave glanced back, leaning against the side of the escalator, “guess you’ll have to find out,” he saluted lazily with a stupid smile, disappearing down onto the first floor.

Sighing, Karkat turned back to stare at the bed. The blanket was mussed and dirty. What Dave had done earlier suddenly came to mind – he reached into his shirt pocket, pulling out a crumpled piece of paper. He smoothed it out, squinting at it. It was one of those item list sheets; the old one that Dave had pulled out of his pocket. It was thoroughly worn, like he’d been playing with it over the past few days.

Scribbled messily in pencil under ‘item name’ was just the words ‘cute ikea dude’, and under the serial number was phone digits.

Damn it.

 


End file.
